


Learning to Breathe Slowly

by JustSomeMilk



Category: Orbiting Human Circus of the Air (Podcast), ohc - Fandom
Genre: Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, sorry that this is so sad, transphobic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustSomeMilk/pseuds/JustSomeMilk
Summary: This is a story about some bad things happening to Julian, and then one good thing happening to Julian at the end.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Learning to Breathe Slowly

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains transphobia, self-harm and transphobic violence.
> 
> As always, any criticism is welcome.

Julian stumbles back in after being out for hours, walking his hands along the walls as he makes his way as quietly as he can given his circumstances back to his closet. Reaching the door, he finds himself so relieved to be back that he mindlessly slams it behind him, and begins, like he has not in a very long time, to openly weep. It feels good just like it always has. 

He replays the events from the night again and again in his mind: Being called names, being followed, and finally, being beaten so severely that it was difficult to walk back to the tower. Even in all of his many layers he has never felt more undressed than he does in this moment. Julian pulls his jacket up over his head, like maybe it can make him disappear. 

He isn’t the type of person to want to die, really. He just wants to slip away to some other place where he doesn’t exist at all. He knows he is in that place most of the time in the eyes of other people, but he could never be safe from himself. Always so heavy, always so present. 

“Why does this always have to happen,” says the boy, burying his face in his sleeves and drawing up his knees, “I’m not hurting anybody, I’m not.”

But you are, boy.

“I’m not,” he repeats again, as firmly as he can given how pathetic he looks.

Then, slowly, the janitor unfurls, and from one of the pockets on his massive jacket, he produces a small pocket knife he had discovered at some point in the tower, probably once belonging to one of the stage hands. Slowly, he pulls back his sleeve, slowly, he draws the knife across his arm, again and again until blood slips out and he bleeds, slowly, slowly, slowly. It feels good, just like it always has.

He cries for a long time.

In the morning, Julian feels in control of himself again. He sings to himself as he gets ready for work, takes in everything around him, tries hard to be good and helpful. He knows that he isn’t good, and he isn’t helpful, but he can pretend. He’s good at that by now.

“Hey, hey, what the hell do you think you’re doin’?” the janitor stops cold. It’s Jacques. 

“Uh-”

“How many fuckin’ times do I have to tell you to stay away from John Cameron’s dressing room, huh? How many fuckin’ times?” 

Here, the janitor is trembling, the memories from last nights beating still fresh in his mind. He spends the rest of the day hiding from everyone inside of a heating duct. He’s good at hiding by now, too.

A long time goes by where everything in quiet, but then Julian hears heavy footsteps. He hears voices outside, too, and they’re almost too faint to make out, but he can just barely: It’s Jacques again, accompanied by Pierre. He quiets his breathing with surprisingly little effort, and strains his ears to listen to their conversation:

“I just don’t get it. I just don’t get it, y’know? I just don’t,” It sounds like Jacques is walking around, and Julian can easily picture him pacing up and down the room, wildly gesticulating with a cigarette in one hand as he speaks, “That kid- That fuckin’ kid- thinks he can just do whatever the hell he wants just because he’s little, an’ he’s got big stupid eyes and a little round face-”

“No kidding,” Pierre responds plainly.

“God, have you ever, have you ever seen a guy that little? Probably, like, crazy skinny, too,” Jacques pauses, and Julian realizes as he does that he hasn’t taken a breath since the men had begun to speak. He places both hands over his mouth in an attempt to muffle himself as he tries to inhale and exhale as quietly as he can, as to not compromise his position.

Just as Julian thinks he will not be able to take small, silent breaths much longer and his lungs are beginning to ache, Pierre breaks the silence:

“I wouldn’t know Jacques- I’ve never seen him when he’s not swallowed up by that massive coat, if I’m being honest.”

“Of course you haven’t. Nobody has.”

Another silence slips into the conversation, almost as if both men are realizing this for the very first time. Then, Jacques once again begins to speak:

“What do you think…. What do you think he looks like, under all that?”

“Dunno,” says Pierre. Then, in a slightly different, more accusatory tone, “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

The floorboards squeak as Jacques seems to shift back and forth on his feet, “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

A heavy tension hangs in the air, and for a moment, nobody dares to even breathe.

“I mean, do you think he’s really a guy, or-”

Julian does not hear the rest. He has placed his hands over his ears, pressing so hard against them that it hurts.

Hours later, Julian manages to creep back into John’s dressing room, this time not even pretending to tidy up. If Jacques finds him here and roughs him up, then Julian figures that it really serves him right.   
He looks at himself in the vanity mirror. This was something he has not done in a very long time. There was a mirror in his closet- a cracked, dirty one that could only reflect parts of his face and made him look very distorted. Meanwhile, John’s mirror is crystal clear.

Julian studies his face. He leans in, slowly placing his hands around his cheeks and jaw. Slowly, he runs his fingers down the bridge of his nose. He circles his big eyes with his fingers, ever so gentle, careful, slow. He leans back in the chair(one of the most comfortable he had ever sat in) and he drinks himself in, slowly, slowly, slowly.

The janitor hears the door begin to open behind him, but, strangely, he does not start. His eyes grow no bigger, his body no smaller. He decides that whatever happens to him tonight is just going to happen.  
“Boy,” says John Cameron, who Julian can see in the reflection of the vanity. Strangely, John does not seem angry. He does not even seem annoyed.

“What are you doing in here?” Julian does not answer. “Just, sitting in front of the mirror. I never took you for the type to be vain.”

“I’m not,” Julian says flatly.

“Are you alright, boy?”

Julian does not answer.

“Let me get you something to drink,” says John Cameron, getting out a bottle of wine and pouring two glasses. He sets one down in front of the janitor, “For you.”

They drink in silence.

Eventually, John sets down his glass, clearing his throat before speaking, “Well, it seems neither of us are ourselves tonight, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Julian swallows hard.

John, who had been leaning against his desk, pulls up a chair and sits beside the janitor, “I overheard a conversation between the stagehands.”

The words hit Julian like a bullet. He remains quiet, but he knows the impact is visible.

“You too,” John says sort of quietly, “Boy, listen, I-” John begins shakily, looking at the floor, then at Julian’s clothing, then at the floor again, “I understand. I’m not exactly what they would consider “really a guy” either.”

Betraying his own resignation to himself, Julian sits up in his seat. He looks up at John Cameron with big, round eyes, “Really, Mr. Cameron?”

An easy smile spreads across John’s face, “It seems like you’re yourself again, boy. I was getting worried.”

John removes his jacket and his shoes, “You can take yours off too, alright? No need to worry.”

To Julian, John seems more relaxed in this moment than he has ever been. 

Slowly, Julian unties his shoelaces, slipping his falling-apart shoes off and placing them under the desk. He slides his coat off as well, placing it over the back of the chair behind him, nice and slow and easy. Gently, he leans back, and he begins, like he has not done in a very long time, to genuinely relax.


End file.
